If you know me, you know my brother, undoubtedly. He and I are really tight - always have been, and I hope always will be. It's just how things have always been. We get each other in some indescribable way no one else can quite come close to, and that neither of us ever has to say. It's the one thing I can always count on, really.
If you know me, you may or may not know my sister. We've always loved each other, of course. We share some common interests. But we're not very much alike, to put it lightly. It might have a little to do with the age gap, but I kind of doubt it. And, without fail, she can get under my skin and hurt me more than anyone else I've ever met. My brother included. He could hurt me more than anyone, but he never does. It just doesn't happen.
I'm so bone-weary of the subject, though there are very few people I talk to about it.
Tonight, my sister managed to make me cry for the first time in quite a while. She doesn't know that, of course, but it's there. That nasty, no holds-bared, far below the belt and deeper than deep lashing out and tearing each other to pieces we engage in. I'll freely but not proudly admit I participate and hit to hurt. But mostly? I'm defending myself. It's an offense-defense, but to me that's what it feels like. Like I have to hurt or be hurt. But I never quite win. If winning entails this kind of hurt, she is the undisputed champion.
I have to speculatively say a lot of this stems from jealousy, though I don't like to think that's all of it, because it seems discrediting to her character. Some of it, at least, does come from her jealousy over my brother and I's bond. And I can relate to that. I've been on the fringes, unintentionally though inevitably left out in friendships. Quite a bit, actually. And it feels terrible. I know that. But I also know it can't be helped, past a certain extent. Either a bond that deep forms or it doesn't. That doesn't make it suck any less, but it's what I've had to come to terms with on more than one occasion.
I realize that growing up, it must have seemed like the Joy-and-Paul show, but we didn't mean to do it. I know she knows that, but she plays the I-was-left-out card often enough for me to question an acceptance of this explanation without some sort of malicious motivation theory on our part underlying it. God, that sentence doesn't even make sense. You can tell I'm upset when I'm using bigger words and more technical wording. Ugh.
I'm just so, so tired of her thinking I have things so easy and that I'm always favored above her. Of assuming I gloat over these things, or lord them over her. Of discounting my opinion because I'm younger, and thus inferior. Of refusing to believe I'm capable of moving past childhood tendencies into adulthood. Of thinking the worst of me, by default.
The argument, as it always is, is stupid. Petty. I brought up the memory of this one tape-and-book combo we had growing up that we loved and she said she had it in her room. I asked why she was hiding it away, half-jokingly, just 'cause I hadn't seen it in a while and thought we'd lost it or something. My mom joined in, completely jokingly asking if she was hoarding it. She combated that I was one to talk about hoarding things away.
To clarify, I used to save everything. It got pretty bad. I was a pack-rat, definitely, but as I've grown up I've forced myself to start throwing things away, giving them away, and overall determining whether or not I truly need things. It happens to be one of her favorite flaws of mine to pick on, which I've always thought was kind of odd. Somehow that doesn't make it any less aggravating when she does, however.
So, aggravated, I asked for an example, since I've grown a lot in that area and wanted to, I don't know, prove myself in some way, as hopeless as it now seems. I don't really understand where her reply came from, since in retrospect it doesn't make sense, except again from the explanation of jealousy. She mentioned the seawater pearls my mom gave me a year or so back that she had 'wanted since she was three'.
The seawater pearls were a gift I hadn't asked for. I had mentioned how beautiful they were and my mom said I could have them. I even asked if she was sure, since it seemed like she loved them herself, and she assured me she wanted me to have them. It meant a lot to me, as the pearls were very much my mom in style, and I knew I'd always think of her whenever I wore them. My sister remarked, just once, when I first wore them, that she had wanted them.
Some more dialogue followed that I don't feel like transcribing because it was mean and petty on both parts. I asked for another example, because, I guess, I stupidly didn't think it could get worse.
She replied citing a music box my mom also gave me. The music box was originally a gift from my Aunt Marty to my mom, and growing up, I always thought it was the most gorgeous contraption ever. I got in the habit of sneaking to my mom's dresser when I was sad or hurt or just upset and winding it, listening to the tune as I cried or seethed or brooded, and somehow it always made me feel better. The fact that it and its song were unfalteringly beautiful despite whatever bad thing was happening within me was a small but much needed escape. It also meant a lot to me, and was an unasked for, surprise gift from my mom after I told her clumsily how it had helped me growing up.
My sister had never it before mentioned this transaction, and as far as I knew, hadn't cared. I'd never even known she liked the music box at all. I still don't, actually. It might just be one more thing I got that she didn't. Like we're in some sort of contest for personal possessions our parents feel like gifting to us. And it makes me feel sick and hurt and sad. Like I can't be happy about these things anymore.
My mom tried to salvage us by steering us off the conversation, but at this point I was hurt and confused, and angry. So, inevitably, we got into another argument, and it turns out my sister also thinks I favor one of my dogs over the other, which I don't, and make a point not to. I love Sugar for being Sugar and Oscar for being Oscar. In different ways, to be sure, but equally. It's just one more thing she holds against me, without my knowledge.
It shouldn't bug me as much as it does, I guess. It's just disarming that my own sister views me so negatively. That she thinks I'm so mean, so callous, so cold, so spoiled. That she thinks I'm such a bitch. It makes me that bitch, to survive the onslaught and thought that one person who has known me all my life could think this horribly of me. To put on an air that it doesn't matter to me. It has to not matter, because otherwise it hurts too much.
I don't know if our relationship will ever be healthy. I can hope...but I'm too realistic to invest myself in the dream.
